


To Spare

by annabagnell



Series: With Time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “What?” Sherlock asked, fidgeting with the waistband to find a more comfortable position. He looked at John, then, brow furrowed. “Do I look pregnant?”John looked him up and down. There was a definite curve to his middle, highlighted by the slight tug of his shirt fabric along the column of buttons. John found himself smiling and couldn’t bring himself to stop. “Yeah, love,” he said, grinning. “You look just a little pregnant.”





	To Spare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is a fic written for BakerStMel (you can find her on Twitter!) as thanks for being the best fandom mom a girl could ask for. Thanks Mel, for being so supportive and loving to all of us. Here's a continuation of "With Time" - though it's more a prequel than a continuation, exploring John and Sherlock's first time as parents.

It all started with two pink lines. Shaking hands held the test over the bathroom sink, waiting for the last few seconds to seal his fate. The second line darkened even more as he clutched the plastic in his hands, as though to say ‘this is real.’ Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror and was surprised to see a wide smile on his face - it had crept in without him noticing, but as he noticed it grew all the wider. “So I’m going to be your mother, then,” he said, pressing a hand to his bare stomach beneath the white cotton of his t-shirt. “Take it easy on me, if you could. I’m new to all this.”

John cried when Sherlock told him. He gathered him up in shaking arms and pressed kisses to his cheeks and chin and jaw and neck, and Sherlock felt warm tears left in the wake of John’s lips. “You’re going to be amazing,” he breathed, with his fist curled up in Sherlock’s shirt just beside his shoulder.

“And you’re going to be a dad,” Sherlock replied, and he laughed when John laughed through a fresh wave of happy tears.

 

It was 1998 when Sherlock and John found out they were going to become parents. November turned to December turned to January and suddenly it was 1999 - and the baby would be due in September if all went to plan.

They were getting ready for a late New Years party with some of Sherlock’s family. “I’m not sure I’m ready to tell them yet,” Sherlock said, pulling on his trousers and letting the waistband settle on his hips while he buttoned his shirt. “I know it’s safe now, and we planned to, but I’m still just...”

“Nervous. Me, too,” John said, doing up his cuffs. He looked across at Sherlock, who was finished buttoning his shirt and was tucking it into his trousers. He felt a little flush rise to his cheeks when Sherlock buttoned the waistband. Tight.

Sherlock caught him looking. “What?” he asked, fidgeting with the waistband to find a more comfortable position. He looked at John, then, brow furrowed. “Do I look pregnant?”

John looked him up and down. There was a definite curve to his middle, highlighted by the slight tug of his shirt fabric along the column of buttons. The lowest one even gaped a little. The waistband of his trousers pulled wrinkles into his tucked shirt and bowed forward just enough to whisper ‘there’s something here that usually isn’t.’ John found himself smiling and couldn’t bring himself to stop. “Yeah, love,” he said, grinning. “You look just a little pregnant.”

John could tell the moment Sherlock saw what John had seen. “So I do,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror and tracing his finger along the line of his trouser waistband. “Well. These were my largest pair of trousers, so they’ll have to do. We won’t be fooling anyone tonight,” he said, and John saw the light in his eyes.

“No, probably not,” he replied, and stepped toward Sherlock to put his hands on his hips. His nose was just at the level of Sherlock’s neck, and he nuzzled carefully into the open vee of his shirt collar to press a kiss to his skin. “Growing in there. Hadn’t really noticed anything. But you really are pregnant, love. You’re going to have a baby.”

“Your baby,” Sherlock replied, humming. “Our baby.”

 

 

“It’s a girl,” the doctor told them, pausing the wavering image so that John and Sherlock could see. “Congratulations. You’re having a daughter.”

“A daughter,” Sherlock breathed tearfully, clutching John’s hand. “A little girl. We need some estrogen in the flat,” he said, looking up at John. “A daughter, John.”

John leant down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s happy tears radiating from his cheeks, and he squeezed John’s hand tight. “That’s our daughter in there,” he said, glancing up at the screen and then down at Sherlock’s rounded middle.

“She looks perfectly healthy. Ten fingers and ten toes, from what I can see,” the doctor said, moving the wand around a little. “Heart rate is right on, measurements look good too. I’d say you’ve got a healthy little girl in there getting ready to meet you,” she pronounced, making a few notes on Sherlock’s chart before turning off the sonogram machine.

The appointment was over soon after that, and Sherlock re-dressed, pulling a pair of elastic waist trousers up over his growing belly. “We’re going to have to think of names, now that we know just who we’ve got in there.” He laid a hand gently on his middle, feeling the baby flutter inside him.

“Tasha,” John suggested as they left the clinic. “Chelsea. Melanie.”

“Robin. Hayley? No.” Sherlock tapped on his thigh thoughtfully as they rode in the cab back to Baker Street. “Clarissa?”

John was cooking dinner. “Not Amanda,” he said, crossing out the name in the book.

“Not Clara,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of roast beef.

“Kristin?”

“Leah.”

“Not Summer.”

“Joanna.”

There was a long pause. “Joanna,” John said. They were lying in bed, Sherlock facing the door with his knees tucked up and John spooned up against him from behind. John’s hand was on his belly, fingertips just brushing the elastic of Sherlock’s pants. “I actually...”

“Really like it,” Sherlock finished, trailing a finger up from his navel along the top curve of his belly. “Joanna. No H, not Jo-hanna,” he clarified. “J-O-A-N-N-A. Joanna.”

John repeated the name. Sherlock could feel his laugh more than he could hear it, with John’s chest pressed against his upper back. “Yeah, I mean. I think that might be it.”

“I don’t even have any other ideas,” Sherlock admitted. He slid his hand down to cup his bump. “We don’t have to decide for sure. Could be we’ll wake up next week and hate it, and try something else on.”

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, it was to the sound of John behind him, murmuring their daughter’s name quietly with his hand on Sherlock’s belly. The baby kicked inside him, the movement just barely able to be felt - but she was growing stronger every day.

Joanna.

 

 

“You are a silly little thing,” Sherlock said to the baby. He was pressing one finger into the roundness of his belly and drawing it down his side, and she was chasing the movement with her foot. Once he reached a certain point she would stop and take over with a fist, pressing out against where he pressed in. He knew it was just instinct, an automatic response, but knowing that she was growing and learning and reacting to her surroundings was an endlessly fascinating thought.

“She’s got you for a mum. She’s bound to be silly,” John said, lowering his paper and watching Sherlock’s little game with the baby. “I was thinking we might go somewhere for a weekend. One last getaway before we become slaves to the will of a newborn Holmes child.”

“Go where, exactly? I’m not really meant to travel very far at the moment,” Sherlock said. Only thirty-four weeks, but close enough to due that he wanted to be close to their hospital in case something happened.

“Not far. Just outside London. There’s really not much there, if I’m honest, but according to the travel books there are a few cottages and maybe we could rent one for the weekend. Take a walk in nature.”

“I’m not much of one for walking, at the moment, but I’ll do my level best,” Sherlock said. The idea of taking a trip was an intriguing one, at least. “Am I to assume you’ve already booked said cottage?”

“I did call to make an inquiry,” John admitted, barely stifling a shamed grin. “They had an opening for next weekend, if we book quickly.”

The cottage was still available when they called back, and John took down the address and information. Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and Joanna stretched out too, pressing her little feet into his ribs for a few seconds before his gentle hands encouraged her to curl back up. “You’ll be out of there before too long, little one,” he assured her. “Just stay put and let mummy and daddy enjoy their weekend away. We’ll meet you soon enough.”

 

The cottage was small and homey, with a bed barely big enough for the two of them plus Joanna’s bump. It was only a few hours away by car, and had an adjacent nature park where they would be able to walk. Sherlock rested for a bit once they arrived, but early afternoon had them both pulling on their outdoor shoes to enjoy the park.

“Hard to believe we’re going to be parents within the next two months,” John said, holding Sherlock’s hand and leading him down a beaten path past some dogwood trees. “I mean, the evidence is all pointing in that direction, but it seems like it was only a few weeks ago when you told me we were going to have a baby. Now we’re down to a few weeks until she’s here.”

Sherlock was just a little bit breathless and he tugged on John’s hand to slow down. “Thirty-five weeks’ worth of baby is a bit much to lug around at a quick pace,” he huffed, walking slowly until he’d caught his breath.

“Suppose it’s a bit more real for you,” John amended, and Sherlock laughed.

“Not hardly. The pregnancy is very real for me, but sometimes it still takes me by surprise when I think about the fact that it’s going to end with a baby in my arms.” He squeezed John’s hand. “I think I’m ready for it, though. Or as ready as I can be,” he added.

“Nursery is done. We’ve more baby clothes than I know what to do with. We could make a blanket for all of Baker Street with the number of burping cloths we’ve been given.”

“Hospital’s sorted out, name chosen, toys and nappies and dummies and hair bows...”

“Hair bows. For newborns.”

“Mummy sent them, I think they’re nonsense.”

“Can’t argue with Mummy.”

“Not if we want a babysitter.”

“Right, that. If we’re prepared down to the hair bows, I think we’re about as prepared as we can be.”

Sherlock nodded and kept pace alongside John, pulling the head off a daisy as he walked past. “Joanna Grace Holmes.”

“Joanna Grace Watson-Holmes,” John corrected with a grin, and Sherlock chucked the daisy at his face.

 

 

“I’m tired,” Sherlock announced once they arrived back to the cottage. “And my feet are roughly the size of Brighton.”

“Have a lie-down, then, and I’ll give you the famous Watson foot rub.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and waddled to the little bedroom, settling in on the mattress and sighing heavily.

He looked down at the round curve of his belly, so great now that he couldn’t see his own feet. “You’re getting to be a chore to haul around, sweetheart,” he informed the baby, who didn’t deign to reply. John entered the room a few moments afterward with a bottle of lotion and a biscuit. “Crumbs in the bed,” Sherlock said, but took it and had a bite nevertheless.

“Not our bed for much longer. Not our problem,” John said cheerily, pulling Sherlock’s feet into his lap and starting to knead lightly at the arches.

Sherlock let him go on for awhile, until his feet and ankles were tingling and felt less numb and swollen than they had before. “There are other things we can do in a bed that’s not ours,” he said mildly, pulling one leg up the bed and letting it fall to the side, knee bent, framing his belly.

“There’s a number of other things we can do in a bed that’s not ours,” John agreed. He put the lotion aside, and upon second thought picked it back up and held it up with one eyebrow cocked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” he sighed, pulling his shirt off inelegantly and tossing it toward the foot of the bed. “You have no sense of subtlety whatsoever.” He set to work on his trousers next, though he required John’s aid to fully escape their entrapment.

“Just wanted to be certain,” John replied, stripping off his own shirt with ease and stepping out of his trousers before climbing into bed. “I do like these,” he added, and buried his face in between Sherlock’s swollen pectorals and blew a loud raspberry.

“Consider the mood entirely killed.” Sherlock shoved John off and went to pull the sheet up. John stopped him with a kiss to the cheek, and then one to the lips, and a hand roughly caressing one breast, rubbing the nipple between thumb and forefinger. “...Maybe not.”

“Mmmhmm, that’s what I thought,” John said, nipping Sherlock’s lower lip and then ducking down again to capture Sherlock’s nipple in his mouth, suckling gently.

Sherlock let out a noise that could have been a coo of pleasure if he hadn’t caught himself. “Don’t stop,” he breathed. His hips jerked and he moved a hand down around the generous, full curve of his belly to rub his cock, which was springing to life between his thighs.

John made a hum of acknowledgement and kept groping Sherlock’s breast with his broad hand, all the while suckling and teasing Sherlock’s other nipple with his tongue and teeth until it was swollen and red and hot. Sherlock was letting out needy little whines and trying to move his hips, but the size of his belly and the weight of the baby kept him from being able to maintain any sort of rhythm. “John,” he gasped, shuddering and clutching John’s hand to stop the teasing stimulation of his nipple. “Please.”

“I’ve got you, love,” John assured, planting one last kiss to the shiny, saliva-slick nipple he’d been laving his attention on before moving down the bed. He paused for a moment to kiss and caress Sherlock’s belly, giving his navel the same attention he’d given Sherlock’s nipple only a moment before. It served only to frustrate Sherlock even more, and soon he was making the same frantic attempts at moving his hips.

John shushed him gently and finally gave him what he was looking for, taking Sherlock’s cock in his hand and stroking it long and firm and slow. His first stroke drew a long moan from Sherlock’s throat and he went limp in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving. John felt his full-body shudder when he bent down and took the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, still stroking his shaft while sucking at the head of it. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to shiver from head to toe and spill into John’s mouth, sighing his name as his cock pulsed in John’s hand.

Sherlock was breathless and pink and fuzzy around the edges when John climbed up to lie next to him. Still, he gathered his wits and rolled onto his side, pulling John in for a hard kiss, his hand at the nape of John’s neck. “Now you,” he said, and John saw a gleam in Sherlock’s eyes as he rolled back onto his back. “Up,” he commanded, tugging at John until he was up on his knees.

“What...?”

“You said you liked them,” Sherlock said, his cheeks flushed as he put his palms on either side of his breasts and pushed them together. John’s mouth fell open for a second before his brain caught up with his body and closed it again. “Go on. I want you to.”

John straddled Sherlock’s upper body. He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s full belly against his back and the thought of that made his already-hard cock even harder. He slid his cock into the tight valley between Sherlock’s breasts and groaned when Sherlock pushed the twin mounds even closer together. “God,” he breathed, looking down at Sherlock all flushed and pink beneath him.

“Sherlock,” Sherlock corrected, and smacked John’s hip lightly. “Move. Do it.”

John did, starting off slow to get the right angle and then moving faster, watching his cock slide in and out of the shallow but terribly hot space between Sherlock’s breasts. The head of his cock appeared and disappeared with every thrust of his hips as his foreskin rolled over it, making the sensation even more intense.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes of fucking Sherlock’s tits for John to come, frozen in place as his cock painted Sherlock’s chest and neck with hot ropes of come. He grunted inelegantly as he finished, but stayed put for a little while, watching some of it drip down Sherlock’s throat. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he said, bending double to kiss Sherlock.

“More sticky than hot,” Sherlock said, shoving John off him and drawing his finger through a string of it that crossed his chest. “Alright, you made that mess. You can clean it up,” he said, making a face.

“That’s only fair,” John admitted, and got up to go get a flannel.

 

 

Joanna made her entrance into the world on September 21, 1999.

 

 

Sherlock awoke at just past eight in the morning, two days after his official due date. He immediately ran - if one could call the quickest waddle he could manage a ‘run’ - to the bathroom and vomited his dinner from the night before, and then dissolved into tears on the bathroom floor. John raced after him and bundled him into the shower, soothing his stomach with a bath of warm water and dim lights.

“I think Joanna is coming,” Sherlock said out of half-open eyes, quietly, in a room where the only sounds were the dripping faucet and their own breaths.

“Yeah, I sort of figured. The last time you vomited was when you were still having morning sickness. Nausea sometimes comes along with the onset of labor.” John paused, and took a deep breath. “Which is to say, it seems like we’re having a baby.”

Sherlock felt his first contraction a quarter-hour later. He was still in the bath when it came, gripping his belly weakly and then growing stronger and stronger until he winced and shifted in its grasp. It held on for twenty seconds and then released, and he felt another powerful wave of nausea roll through him - though thankfully, not a productive one. “John,” he called out, eyes closed, arm dangling from the edge of the tub. “I just had a contraction.”

“Shit,” came the reply from the kitchen, and the sound of a hurried setting-down of a mug on the countertop. John appeared in the doorway. “Really? How long did it last?”

“Twenty seconds,” Sherlock said. “Started in my groin and moved up. Hurt. Hurt in my spine, too.”

“Yeah, sounds pretty much like a contraction. Afraid they’ll only get worse from here on out,” he said apologetically, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I can give you some over-the-counter pain medication, but nothing much stronger. You’ve already got a bit of a sensitive tummy going on, I can’t give you anything much stronger than that.”

Sherlock shook his head and rested his head on the lip of the tub, closing his eyes. “Maybe later. I’m alright for now.”

He hadn’t realized just how much worse the contractions were going to get. The more they happened, the more they hurt, and after a few hours there was more than just the pain of the contractions to deal with - there was the pressure of a baby moving down in his body, preparing to exit. By noon her head was pressing against his ripening-but-not-quite-dilated cervix, and it felt like a blunt red-hot iron was being held to his insides during contractions.

Sherlock was staggering around the sitting room between contractions, alternating between letting John hold his hand and guide him and cursing his partner into the other room. A fierce contraction had his knees buckling and he grabbed the back of John’s chair for support, eyes tight shut and whining through the sharp pain of the muscle cramp and the dull ache from inside as Joanna’s head pushed against his cervix. “Hurts,” he whimpered, gripping John’s hand tight and hissing through the end of the contraction.

“I know it does. A few more of these and it’ll be time to go to hospital,” John assured, kissing Sherlock’s sweaty cheekbone. “You’re almost down to five minutes between. Once you get there we can go.”

Sherlock sagged into John when the spasm ended. “They get worse every time,” he breathed, sighing. “Didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“I didn’t, either,” John admitted, smoothing his hand down the rumpled, sweaty back of Sherlock’s t-shirt. “So close to being done, though. In a few hours we’ll meet Joanna. Our Joanna Grace.”

Sherlock nodded and looped his arms around John’s neck, resting his weight on John as much as he could. His belly pressed firm and hard against John’s stomach. Within him, Joanna was still, sleeping as she waited to be born.

Three more hard contractions brought the interval down to just under five minutes, and with relief John dressed Sherlock in pajama pants and ushered him down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Mid-afternoon traffic was slow, but they flagged down a cab quickly and Sherlock maneuvered himself inside.

John sat beside him and held his hand while they navigated to the hospital. Sherlock endured three more contractions en route, bravely staying as quiet as he could while in the cab. He breathed slowly and deeply through each long pain, gripping John’s hand so tight the bones shifted. John could tell Sherlock’s composure was fading as they pulled up to the hospital doors. Sherlock looked across at John, vaguely panicked. “We’re having a baby,” he said, and John offered him a wild grin.

“Yeah, we are. Come on, let’s get you inside.” He got out of the cab and circled around to open Sherlock’s door, helping his laboring husband out. Sherlock winced once he got his footing and started heading for the door while John paid the cab driver and got their hospital bag. John’s blood ran cold when he heard a whimper followed by a shout of his name, and whipped around to see a trembling Sherlock staring wide-eyed at his belly as a growing stain spread across the rear of his pajama trousers. “Oh, fuck,” he cursed, shutting the cab door and sprinting toward Sherlock.

“M-my waters,” Sherlock said, shaking through a contraction. He reached out for John for support. Amniotic fluid dripped down onto the pavement between his feet and darkened the fabric of his pajamas. “Hurry, ooh, oh hurry, oh she’s coming now. She’s coming _now.”_

The urgency in Sherlock’s voice chilled John to the bone, and he ran to the hospital entrance and grabbed a wheelchair. He brought it back to Sherlock and put him in it, wondering where in the hell the nurses were just as two of them ran out of the hospital and toward them. Sherlock whined and spread his knees wide, trying to ease the pain in his hips, and squirmed in the chair.

“Quite dramatic,” the first nurse said, taking Sherlock’s wheelchair and pushing him toward the hospital doors. “Haven’t had a waters-breaking-in-the-parking-lot for at least six months. Let’s get you inside, sweetie, you look like you’re well ready to have this baby.”

Sherlock only managed a nod, but John laughed, the tightness in his chest easing. The nurses knew what they were doing, and it would all be alright now. “It’s our first,” he offered, and the second nurse - Abby, by her name tag - smiled. “A girl. Joanna.”

“Lovely name,” said the nurse pushing the wheelchair. “I’m Maggie. Abby and I will be helping your little Joanna come to meet you, but first let’s get you settled into your room.” John nodded and followed along at the fast clip that Maggie set, shouldering Sherlock’s hospital bag as they got inside.

Sherlock’s room was dark and cool. Maggie helped him change out of his now-soaked trousers and shirt and put him in a soft, clean hospital gown, and then she and Abby and John all three helped him into bed. Maggie scrubbed up and put on a set of gloves for a quick exam, after which she pronounced Sherlock eight centimeters dilated. “Made a lot of progress at home, then,” she said, patting Sherlock on the knee. “Keep that up and you may meet your little Joanna before evening tea.”

Being in hospital eased Sherlock’s panic some, but it didn’t ease the pain. He declined an epidural, but accepted stronger pain medicine through an IV. John got a cloth dampened and cleaned some of the sweat from Sherlock’s face and neck, then re-dampened it with cool water and rested it on Sherlock’s forehead.

“You’re doing so well,” he said, stroking Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb as he struggled through another contraction. “You’re so strong. You’re almost done, she’s almost here.”

“Almost, almost, almost,” Sherlock sighed, wincing as the contraction ended. “Almost only counts in horse-shoes and hand grenades. Not in childbirth.” John laughed and Sherlock even cracked a smile, prying his eyes open and looking up at John. Even in late labor, his eyes still shone with love. John kissed the center of his forehead tenderly.

Half an hour later, Sherlock was scrambling to roll over so that he could get on hands and knees. John pressed the call button on the bed over and over until Maggie and Abby arrived, scrubbing their hands and arms quickly and pulling on gloves before helping him get in position. “I’m taking this to mean you’re feeling ready to push,” Maggie said, and Sherlock nodded, gritting his teeth.

“Have to,” he said, gripping the sheets in both hands. “She’s there. There. I need her out.”

“And out you’ll have her. When you feel the next contraction, give us a good hard push,” Maggie instructed. “John, hands on his lower back. When you see him push, press down firmly. It will help, even if you think you’re hurting him.” John nodded dumbly and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Sherlock was pushing with a contraction in the space of a minute, letting out a low animalistic grunt as he bore down. John pressed down as instructed, and it seemed to help Sherlock somehow, as his spine curved upward into the pressure.

“Felt her,” Sherlock gasped, craning his neck to look at John, and then Maggie. “She moved.”

“She’s moving every time you push, love,” Maggie assured. “Keep going, just like that. Give us good strong pushes and we’ll start to see her soon.”

It took three more hard pushes to bring Joanna’s head to crown. Standing at Sherlock’s side, John could see her little scalp starting to emerge, and he had to swipe at tears with his shoulder. The peekaboo sliver slid back in when Sherlock’s push ended. “I saw her,” John said tearfully, pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s head. “I saw her head, oh my god, she’s so close.”

Sherlock bore down again and this time the sliver of scalp that had appeared didn’t disappear - it emerged millimeter by millimeter, until the whole top of her head was in view, with dark brown hair scattered across it. John relayed the information to Sherlock, but he was too far gone in the labor to really comprehend what John was saying.

Everything burned and hurt and felt like it was going to snap. Sherlock gasped and pushed through it. The counter-pressure from John’s hands was only minimally helpful, but just knowing he was there was better than nothing. “It burns,” he whimpered, his blood roaring in his ears.

He pushed again with the next contraction and the burning got worse, until he was certain he was shouting with the pain. It went white-hot and unbearable, but a second later the burning abated and he felt a strange weight and pressure.

“Her head is out,” he heard John say, his voice thick with tears.

“Just so,” Maggie said, patting Sherlock’s thigh. “Shoulders next, and she’ll be born. You’ll have your baby. Give us another good push, Sherlock, I know you have it in you.”

Sherlock wasn’t so sure, but he shoved hard anyway and the burning came back. He knew he was shouting this time, bearing down as hard as he could. The white-hot pain crested and just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he felt Joanna’s body slide fast and slick out of his own, and just like that --

“Perfect!” Maggie said, and before the word was even fished, Joanna cried.

John stared down at the baby that Sherlock had just birthed. She was purple and slick and wailing, eyes shut tight and mouth wide open. “Oh my god,” he said dumbly, only distantly aware of Sherlock demanding that he be given his daughter.

“Just a moment, love,” Maggie said, clamping the newborn’s cord. “Dad, would you like the honors?” She handed John a pair of scissors and showed him where to cut. One thick slice through a rubbery cord and Joanna was her own person, and Maggie whisked her up off the bed and deposited her into Sherlock’s waiting arms.

John swiped at tears and took his place at Sherlock’s side, staring down at their newborn daughter. “Look at her,” he breathed.

“She’s perfect,” Sherlock said, tears shining on his cheeks. Joanna wailed loud and long in his arms, gradually turning pinker. Sherlock took her little fist in his hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing her tiny new fingers. “Oh, my god. John. We have a daughter. She’s so perfect.”

“Incredible,” John said, “Amazing.” He wasn’t sure whether he meant Sherlock or Joanna, but it really didn’t matter, in the end.

 

An hour later, Sherlock had delivered his placenta and had gotten a clean bill of health from the nurses who’d attended to him. Joanna passed all her exams with a perfect score, and she had fallen asleep soon after John clumsily applied his first-ever nappy. She was resting in Sherlock’s arms, but Sherlock too was nearing sleep, bone-tired from delivery. “Take her,” he yawned, shifting the baby toward John with inexperienced hands. “Careful. Support -“

“Her head. I know. The nurses showed me too, you know,” John said, scooping Joanna up and settling her in the crook of his arm. She didn’t so much as stir. “She’s so little,” he murmured, shaking his head and staring down at their daughter in awe. “I thought she’d be bigger, but she’s so tiny. How can fingernails even come that small?”

“You push a seven-pound baby out of your body and tell me again how small she is,” Sherlock said drily, rolling onto his side with a small wince of pain. Now that he was through with labor, they’d upped his pain medication, and that combined with the exhaustion was driving him toward sleep. He yawned again but didn’t want to take his eyes off the baby for a single second.

“You sleep. Now,” John said, leaning over and kissing Sherlock’s forehead. “She’ll be here when you wake up, I promise. I won’t abscond with her whilst you’re asleep. God only knows I wouldn’t be able to handle a newborn baby by myself, let alone a newborn Holmes.”

“A newborn Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock corrected, yawning again but stifling it behind a tired smile. “Wake me if she needs anything.”

“If she’s anything like her mum, she’ll wake you herself.” John smiled. “Sleep well. You earned that one. Your daughter and I will try to give you some rest.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock watched Joanna for a moment longer, then shifted his gaze to John. “You look good as a dad.”

“And you look good as a mum. Sleep,” John said, smoothing Sherlock’s hair back.

Sherlock smiled and let his eyes fall shut, and he was asleep within moments. John and Joanna rocked quietly beside his bed. “Not so terrible, is it?” John murmured, kissing Joanna’s forehead and inhaling the fresh, newborn-baby smell that she had. “No, not too bad at all. I think you’ll do just fine with us, my love. You’ll do just fine.”


End file.
